When The Lake Runs Dry
by xpsychodramaticx
Summary: Avalon has run dry, and the knights of Camelot have re-risen. Merlin has waited 2000 years for this; now at long last he has a chance to do everything again, but with old friends also come old enemies, and old choices he would much rather forget. Now in a world where his feelings are no longer illegal, can Merlin see the rise of a new Camelot without his heart ruling his head?
1. Authors Note

Hullo y'all

So, Merlin. I decided to try my hand at a fanfiction for it. I hope you enoy it, and I have just a few words to say before I get started properly:

This is a Merthur fanfic (the pairing of Arthur/Merlin), although it contains implications of other Merlin/{insert character} ships and humour of a sexual nature (thanks, Gawain...). Also, this could cover some sensitive topics like gang wars/violence, drugs, depression, mild bad language, abuse and mental illness. If any of these topics upset you, or if you don't like character bashing and possible death, I wouldn't recommend going much beyond the prologue.

Apart from all that, I hope that this is a good enough try for my first contribution to this fandom, and I wish you good luck ^-^

Happy reading

-Alix, the author


	2. Prologue

Dawn was breaking. The sun burst over the horizon in a fractal of amber and pink, pure colour overflowing and spilling out across the grey sky. To the young couple walking in the park, it was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen, to the child who rolled in the leaves it was a pretty one-minute-wonder, to the office worker it was a mildly pleasant start to an otherwise grey day; many looked up and smiled, most took it in and even though they too smiled, saw nothing in it. One, however, did not look at that morning sky with happiness in him. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so what happens when the eyes have closed themselves to all but grim darkness? Beauty cannot touch the heart of some, and the old man who sat hunched on a low wall was one of those people. Once, a long time ago, he had been a young boy who saw much goodness in the world. He would have seen the sun rising as he walked through a medieval town, the happy greetings of the people in his ears, and another, more private, joy in his heart. Once, he had been Merlin Emrys. He no longer thought himself fit to bear that name, a name that belonged to somebody else thousands of years ago; to a boy that had died. He was an old man now. Old beyond reckoning, and dry as the vast deserts on the Arabian planes, barren as a windswept wasteland. A haggard old man in a filthy coat, a dark green satchel clutched to his chest, thick boots worn through at the soles, fingerless gloves so patched that there was little of the original material left. He lingered on like a wraith, unable to die, it seemed. His work was done, his purpose served. None were left to know who he was, to teach the art of magic, and all those who had believed were gone... Indeed, Merlin himself had made it that way out of neccessity, and how deeply he was regretting that choice now.

Under his careful watch, the tales of Camelot had dwindled to nothing. A time of great heroes and knights, of magic and honour and vast, overwhelming darkness became a time of little more than legend. There was nothing left now. Carefully, all alone, Merlin had changed the great scriptures, reinvented himself and those he had once known. For a short while he allowed himself to entertain that idea that he was an artist, painting a picture to capture the minds of many and then pass away again like a wind. He fancied himself brilliant, and brave and so very bold- he was playing with laws of magic that should never be tested, blurring the very lines of reality and fiction... but one morning, as he had sat by the Lake and gazed out at the waters that had taken so much from him, the cold ache in his chest had swelled and swelled, until there was nothing left but a single, wordless cry that echoed over the misty murk of the morning. Why him? Why was he the last one left behind, out of all the brave knights and far greater warlocks he had met? This wasn't his destiny anymore. His destiny had stopped meaning anything when he had sent Arthur to his final resting place, when he had held Gaius as the old man passed away, when he had realised that he was the last of the great magic-users. Was there someone out there who enjoyed his suffering? Merlin was certain that some great being was taking immense pleasure from watching as Merlin's great love and optimism, his kindness and determination to see good dwindled away to nothing. Everything that people had valued in him was dying, but still there were things that remained: darkness, bitterness, and world-weariness, but also misery. Misery, he was learning, was just like him. Misery was immortal.

And so, Merlin had slunk away into the backwashes of society, and all the goodness and pure magic within him slowly festered. His form became hunched, his body twisted and withered with the years, his hair a matted white, his kind mouth downturned in a grimace, but all the while his eyes only grew sharper with years of pain. He had given up all hope, and forgotten his purpose in the world- until one drab autumn evening, when suddenly everything changed. Through the darkest night, the very first chinks of dawn were approaching.

* * *

 _ **{To my followers on this fanfiction website: JEEBUS IT'S BEEN MONTHS I AM SO BLOODY SORRY I NEVER MADE IT BACK AND I NEEDED A BREAK FROM CRIMINAL MINDS BUT I'M HERE WITH MY OLD HELL MERLIN WHICH IS DEVOURING THE REMAINS OF MY SOUL SO HAVE THIS NEW FANFIC AND I PROMISE I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE FOR SO LONG AGAIN OMG**_

 _ **All the problems I was experiencing have been sorted, so hopefully I won't have to leave like that. It's been hell, but I needed the break}**_


	3. Chapter I

The evening was a cruelly cold one, turning Merlin's laboured breathing into crystals that scraped his throat and cracked his lips, and turned his fingers blue. High above him, the stars and moon beat their impassive gazes down on his upturned face, making his already pale and wrinkled skin trancluscent and his eyes shine. Everything was quiet. Perhaps, at this moment in time, Merlin might even go so far as to say that on this night that had once been so important to he and all others of the Old Religion, the moon looked breathtakingly beautiful. Looking down, he sighed heavily and the light spilling across his face was driven back by deep shadows, as he momentarily caught a dizzying sight of himself in a puddle. Turning away with a sound of disgust forming in his throat, he began to make his limping way back towards the public toilets he was spending the night in. As he went, a sound came to his failing ears. It might have been his imagination, fired by the old memories that were surfacing for some reason, but was he hearing a vague cry for his help? For _Emrys'_ help? His unsteady bootfalls came to a slow shuffle. Somewhere in the night, a dog fox barked shrilly. A car drove past, sending filthy oil-stained water in a slosh over Merlin's feet and lower trousers, and then it was gone into the deepening dusk. Silence fell. Not even Merlin's heart dared to beat; instead it fell still in his throat, and the blood roaring in his ears faded away. Nothing moved. If there was a time for something to strike Merlin where he stood, it was then, when all was calm and the world seemed at peace other than the things in Merlin's own head- and then there it was again. A scream this time, rising in a heart-piercing, ear-shattering keen like a spirit rushing at him from a void.

Merlin froze. The voice that he could hear echoing through the darkness was one he would never forget. Once, so very long ago, that same voice had knifed through his head in a scream for help- _"help me, Emrys... they're trying to kill me"_

And Merlin had been unable to ignore it. He had always thought that if he ever heard that cry again, he would be consumed with hatred. How often had he lain awake at night, wishing he had had the strength to ignore those desperate pleas? How often had he wished that he had been able to kill the strange druid boy himself? Too many starless nights had been spent in the dark, wishing on the things that he couldn't change, dreaming of murder. Too many dark mornings had been spent trembling down a dark back alley, terrified of what he felt capable of doing. Sometimes, however, a cold voice that sounded strangely similar to the powerful voice of the Great Dragon would rise above all of Merlin's moral defenses, and he would find himself drawn back into that dangerous place where he thought of all the times he could have- and should have- put a stop to Mordred's evil before it had blossomed and grown poisoned fruit.

And here he was, faced with that very opportunity.

So why were his feet moving? Why was he running, his old body seeming to become that of a young man again, lungs straining with the force of his answering shout? He didn't want this. He wanted to hobble away, his ears deaf to the heart-wrenching cries of a helpless child; a child who had lost all right to be called innocent when Arthur's blood had stained his sword, and the light of a murderer had shone so terribly in his eyes. That was the image that Merlin wanted to see, but instead he could think only of saving Mordred again. He could only see those wide, pale blue eyes, nearly swimming with tears and tinted with terror. Mordred, who could have been so happy. Mordred, who had been so sweet...

A little voice, the one who always sounded very reasonable, was trying to make itself heard: "this can't be Mordred, Merlin, you're becoming cracked. Mordred will be less than dust by now, just as Arthur is less than ashes. This is just some other child... stop running! STOP!" It cried, completely in vain, as Merlin's feet slid down the underpass slope where in the day children raced down on their bikes for fun. It was slick with rainwater, but worse than all of that was the blood that depicted a crazed trail all the way down into the dark mouth of the underpass itself. Something was stirring deep inside Merlin, awoken for the first time in centuries by the sight of those bloody footprints and the cries that were growing more and more desperate, even as they decreased in strength. Something ancient, forgotten and powerful was burning through his veins. He felt it sear his skin, boiling his blood and making his very bones sing; he felt the magic once again. His eyes stung as if with tears, and the darkness into which he stepped was suddenly destroyed by a thousand fragments of brilliant whiteness. The voice echoed now through his skull, a memory to match the real voice he heard in his ears, to match the pale little hand that was reaching out for the light that surrounded him.

Two hands, one gnarled and ancient as the roots of an oak, one smooth and pale like marble: a moment of perfect stillness fell as they gripped each other, then the old seemed to soften, and at last... it became young.

Emrys had returned, and at long last the stupour that he had wasted away in was broken. In the gloom of a modern day underpass, where the air stank vaguely of excrement and beer, and two figures stood reaching for each other like long-lost brothers, the time of Camelot had come again.

* * *

When Merlin came back to himself, he was looking up at a dazzlingly bright blue sky, faint reels of white cloud scattered across it. The wind that brushed across his burning brow was cool, but the day was pleasantly warm, and the air he shakily dragged into his lungs was sweet with the scent of new spring grass. The contrast with the dull British Autumn night that he had been in was shocking, and wholly welcome. Strength slowly began to seep into his bones: bones that had ached and creaked, but now felt so light that, if he tried, he would be able to fly. True, there was a faint pain in every one of his joints like he had a fever that was leaving him, but even that pain was disappearing like sea-mist with the morning. Mildly amazed, he lifted his hand to his face to brush away the locks of black hair that hung in his eyes, and froze. The wrinkled hand that he had become so used to seeing was that of a young man once again, the knotted joints and age-spots vanished as if by magic.

 _As if by magic..._

How he had laughed to hear that expression once, and how he laughed now. Laughing like he hadn't laughed in a very long time, lying on his back in the grass with his arms spread wide to embrace the world that suddenly looked so brilliant. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and a constricting band of iron that had been around his thin chest for so long dissolved to nothing. It didn't matter that he had somehow passed out and ended up in this place- which some deep instinct in his heart told him was the Lake of Avalon- or that his last clear memeory was taking Mordred's small hand in his own, or even that it should have been impossible for him to be here. None of that mattered.

"Merlin," The voice that broke his thoughts was soft but strong, young but old... A voice he had loved, and would always love, he realised, no matter what the years did to him. Scrambling to his feet, he turned towards the vast expanse of water, and grinned. There, in the center, and drifting ever closer towards him, was a figure clothed in flowing blue robes. Her feet didn't touch the waters surface, but she wasn't floating. She was of the river itself, above it and below it, within and beyond: the woman he had known as Freija, the Lady of the Lake.

"Freija..." he gasped softly. Oh, what a sight for sore old eyes! She was as young as ever, and just as beatiful as he remembered her- but sadder, too. Despite the smile on her careworn face, her eyes spoke of deeper and far more melancholy things. "...how? How can this be?"

"Your time has come again, Merlin. I cannot stay here long, and neither can you. We are existing within all that remains of the land that should have and will always be Albion, but it is only a memory, taken from your mind- I fear this will not last," Her feet came to the waters edge, and that was where she stayed. Merlin was rooted to the spot, unable to move or even speak. "You have a chance to fulfil your destiny, to re-do this. You passed the test that was laid down for you, and for that you will be rewarded, but with this great power comes, if not responsibilty, a greater price. I know you bore the secret of your magic for many years, and for that you are remembered: you were the bravest of them all, but now you must be braver still. You did not know it, but the young Pendragon and all those who followed him have been returned to life. They do not know who they are, and it is not your place to tell them at once. Your task is to find them, and bring them together. When you heal the scars and rebuild the bridges, then- and only then- can your peace be found. I wish you luck, for nothing will be as it seems. This is a new time, and much has changed: the meaning of good and evil itself is different, and the things to which you held onto no longer exist. I am truly sorry that not all could be returned. You have the power to play God, Merlin, do not abuse it. Your youth has been restored, but I fear those you seek are even younger, and those that oppose you may know more than you think... Please be strong,"

"I don't understand- I-I can't do this alone!" he cried, starting forward towards her, reaching for her as he began to run.

"Be strong," she said again, and the first tear slowly trickled its way down her cheek.

"No, just a few more minutes, please-" he tried to seize her robe in his hand- to hold her, and never let her go... but she was gone, and so was the Lake. Merlin was falling fowards into a road, traffic tearing past him, the bypass wind buffetting his body like angry hands pushing and pulling at him. Gasping, with tears soaking his cheeks, he staggered back to the kerb and stumbled out of the road. Far in the east, the sun's first light was staining the horizon, and all that had happened felt like a dream.

Merlin's first thought was that he had been drugged- who had he taken his last meal from? He could not recall... but his head was clearing rapidly, and staring at his reflection in a sun-warmed puddle told him everything he needed to know. All that had occoured had been no mere dream, or drug-induced hallucination- it had been real as the young flesh on his bones, and the magic that he could feel awoken in his heart once again. He had a task again, a purpose. True, that task was shrouded with uncertainty, but as he had always been told: 'if he followed his heart, then all would go well in the end'.

Turning his back to the night that still lingered in the west, and his face to the first rays of sunlight, he picked up his staff which had at some point fallen by the kerbside, and began to walk. Where to? He could not say, only that he was going towards a better future, and a better end.

* * *

 _ **{Thanks for reading :) If you want to see more, and if you're gonna keep reading- give me a little shout and a wave below in the comments! I do have to warn you though, I'm about as easy on fan's hearts as Stephen Moffat...}**_


	4. Chapter II

Three weeks.

That was the amount of time it had taken Merlin to journey across country. He was learning fast that in this new age, people were less likely to trust and help a young man who smiled, than a bitter old crone who spat at them. Merlin's feet burned and his eyes drooped from exhaustion, every joint aching as if he hadn't just lost all those wearisome years and had instead aged overnight. He was almost certain that what little meat he had on his bones had melted away, his throat was parched with desperate thirst, and he couldn't even feel the hunger pangs in his stomach anymore. Sighing, he passed a weary hand over his eyes and checked his compass bearing against the high noon sun, before looking up at the shadow of Scafell behind which lay the point he had come from: the small villiage of Stonethwaite.

Originally he had been planning to ride his thumb across country towards Edinborough and the wild Scottish countryside, but two things had gotten in his way. He seemed to be walking in circles no matter what he did, and no car or lorry would pick him up if they saw him waiting at the roadside. Merlin had become restless, unable to focus, and there had been a dull ache in his gut which only lessened when he turned his feet along the road towards the southern parts of England. By some strange design, before he knew it, his course had changed and he was making his way through the Lake District National Park, hiking on his own two feet through gorse and bramble, over the harsh releif and tussocky terrain until he had been climbing Scafell's treacherous winter heights. Blinded by slate, battered by ravenous winds that bit into every inch of his skin, he had blundered over the pass onto the pike rather than the mountain itself where he had come across a group of tourists who had made the same mistake as him. They had all been so drenched and windswept that nothing was thought of Merlin's rugged, ragged appearance, and they had all gone down the mountain together.

Now, the ache was back: it was gnawing away at his insides, making him tired and short tempered, irrational in his irritation. The tourists had been three days ago, and since then he had existed in a mind-numbingly boring limbo. He was being drawn back towards the mountain again by that aching pull, but every single nerve in his body was screaming at him to head towards the small villiage of Boot where he would find food and water, and maybe even some sort of nice shelter. The walking in circles had started again, until at long last, driven by nothing but a wish for this tiring trek to be over, he had succumbed to the pull and delved off the set path along the banks of the River Esk into the surrounding scrubland where the only living things he saw were critters and crawlers of various types.  
Hard as it was, Merlin had no choice but to remember Freija's words; so, rallying his failing strength, he had whispered a prayer to whatever powers that be, and pushed himself forward into the course that the Pull was setting for him.

* * *

It was early morning of the second day of his seemingly aimless ramblings, and he had discovered a large pool in a low dip in the land. Sliding down a bank that was slippery with dew-drenched grass, he had skidded down gratefully to the waters edge and flung himself onto a bank of gritty sand with a small cry of releif. His shaking legs refused to carry him so much as another meter, as he took his water bottle from his very worn green satchel and began to fill it with water from the pools edge. The water was a rich blue in colour, reflecting the clear after-storm skies perfectly over its glassy surface, and it was cool against his hands as he trailed them through it. A water-boatman skidded by, its ridulous little legs frantically propelling it along, and out towards the center the water looked alive with pond-skaters dancing over a silvery mirror. He smiled, taking a refreshing gulp until he had drained the bottle in just a few greedy guzzles, and was going back to fill it again.

"You shouldn't be drinking from that," a sullen but silky female voice came from behind him, and Merlin found himself spewing his mouthful back out in suprise, whipping around with a feeling akin to guilt in his stomach. His eyes widened, their blue hue darkening first from anger and then sadness as he looked at the girl who stood before him, a pair of expensive headphones around her neck still sending barely audible waves of heavy metal out into the otherwise still morning air. Her dark hair hung in waves down to her waist, carelessly tied off over one shoulder, and her unforgtettable hazel-green eyes regarded him with a coolly piercing look. Panic gripped Merlin.

Morgana Pendragon was everything that Merlin remembered her to be: proud, and beatiful as a winter evening, an expression of teasing defiance heightening her brow and curving her reddened lips in a disturbing half-smile. She was wearing a long coat and sturdy boots, a green tartan scarf loosely hanging around her shoulders and a black netted choker around her pale throat. Her arms were folded across her chest, and most of her weight leaning on one hip as she watched his reaction. It was possibly nothing more than Merlin's imagination, but the wildness in her eyes was like that of a she-wolf who knows her prey has nowhere left to run. She raised her eyebrows at him, and then her face changed as she smiled.

"You don't need to look so scared, sir," she sighed, rolling her eyes and flipping her hair out of her eyes. "I'm just saying, that can't be safe to drink,"

"Um," was the only thing that Merlin could say in response. His heart was beating far too fast, and cold sweat had broken out on his palms. So, she didn't know him? She who had become both his greatest ally and his forsworn enemy in turn, was now no more than a stranger to him. He couldn't tell if he welcomed this knowledge or not. "Oh, no... it sh-should be alright. Spring water," he finally explained, standing and looking up at her, wiping his hands on his trousers. Dumbly, lacking anything better to do or say, he held out the bottle to her. She frowned down at him, taking half a step backwards and shaking her head.

"No, not for me... thanks," she laughed, but it was pale and breathless, and the realisation that he was scaring her hit him like a hefty blow to his stomach. He, Merlin, was scaring _Morgana?_ Somehow, that wasn't quite right. Picking up his satchel he cleared the slope in a few bounding steps, until he was standing in front of her with a grin on his face.

"No, didn't think so..." he fell silent for a moment. What he said next came to him from a distant time, where he had been far below Morgana, obliged to be in a position of no more than servitude under her ladyship. Straightening himself, he clasped his hands behind his back and asked in a manner of forceably controlled politeness, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well, yes," she said quickly- _or else I wouldn't be talking to_ _you_ _,_ her tone implied, even if she said nothing of the sort out loud. Merlin raised his eyebrows, waiting for more, keeping a small and subservant smile on his face. "I'm lost,"

"Really, Miss?" Oh, he hadn't been expecting that.

"I'm camping with my... family. I went for a morning walk, and now I don't now whereabouts I am," she shrugged noncommitadly, but a small flush of colour rose on her otherwise pale cheeks, and now that Merlin was level with her and much nearer, he noticed the redness around her eyes. Seeing her looking so upset, he realised just how lost she must be. Morgana had always been strong and independant, and he didn't think she had ever gotten herself in a helpless situation alone in all the time he had known her. An awkward silence came between them: Merlin stood battling with his conflicting emotions, while Morgana was trying to keep her own panic in check.

She didn't like the fact that she was forced to ask help of a stranger, especially not one who looked half-wild and starved, like something from the landscape itself. His many layers were still damp, his hair dishevelled and curling in all directions, and everything from the knees down were coated in a layer of mud. Still, there was something about his open face and quiet attitude that made her feel that she could trust him, as well as the way he had looked so outright terrified when she had first spoken to him. There was still some of that fear in his face, even as he smiled.

"Well? Can you help me?" she asked, a waspishness in her voice that she hadn't intended to be there.

"I can try," he muttered, and slung his bag back over his shoulders, hooking both thumbs around the strap where it lay across his chest. As he stood there, one foot half-lifted off the ground, he felt a sudden pull renching his insides and calling him back towards the river Esk, and his knees almost gave out from underneath him. The world lurched forwards, and before he could really register what was happening, Morgana was holding his elbow and helping him over to a scattering of boulders around the edge of the steep dip that held the pond. All the blood had drained from his face, and his hands were shaking badly; he didn't even care that it was Morgana that was helping him either, only able to collapse and sit down on the rock. The waves of nausia that were rolling over him had been brought on by a sudden sense of de ja vu, although he couldn't quite put his finger on what was unsettling him enough to bring tears to his eyes. He hadn't felt anything like this since the Caileach had first appeared to him: everything had gone cold and the world about him had been brought into such high definition that it looked grey, overwhelming him and stifling his senses; he had felt his body shutting down, his spirit trying to escape. These same feelings consumed him now, coupled with a gaping yearning that burned far stronger than the eye of a pheonix itself.

Arthur was near.

With nothing but the sound of his own breathing echoing in his ears, and the faintest cry from Morgana, he felt himself pitch sideways off his boulder.

"Here, eat this," something in foil was being placed in his hand, and he was being helped to sit up again. Blinking and shaking his head, he looked down to see a soggy-looking sandwhich sitting in the palm of his hand. It was small and pathetic, and the smell of tuna was making him feel even worse, but it was the strange act of kindness behind it that revived him enough to sit himself up. He groaned under his breath. "When did you last eat anything?" Morgana asked, and the concern in her voice was unusual- but not completely alien. After all, hadn't she been kind, once?

"A month?" he took a hasty bite out of the sandwhich so that he wouldn't have to explain himself. The look on Morgana's face said it all: it was humanely impossible to survive that long without food, but she could see that he wasn't lying. He was probably unnerving her even further, and he didn't much care.

"That... isn't..."

"No, it isn't. I don't know. We should get going," he got to his feet, closing the foil parcel again and giving it back to Morgana. He had hardly nibbled at it, she noticed with suprise. Slowly she put it back in the pocket she had found it in, stepping back as he stood up and gave her a smile that could have been idiotic.

"Surely, you're not well enough to-"

"I'm okay! Come on," and then he was off, jumping over the rocky outcropping that he had previously been sitting on looking as awful as death itself. He was walking steadily, already a good few paces ahead of Morgana and confidently heading in the opposite direction than the one she had come from. Speechless for a moment, it dawned on her that the man clearly knew where he was going and she had no choice but to follow after him like some lost puppy. Pathetic. Casting one final look back at where he had collapsed, as if expecting to see a reason for his off behaviour sitting comfortably on the rock and waving at her, she started after him at a half-run while still trying to look dignified.

"Don't you at least need to rest?" she called, finally catching up with him.

"Nope. You're camping you say?"

"Yes, we are, but-"

"You shouldn't have walked off,"

"No offense, but it isn't any of your business-"

"You're making it my business, by asking me for help. Hm... this way," he veered his course sharply to the left, and Morgana almost tripped as she went to follow him. If Morgana wasn't much mistaken, he seemed to be enjoying this. There was a mischevious smile threatening to pull up one corner of his mouth, and a bright light in his eyes. Pausing for a moment he shut his eyes, swaying to one side and drawing in a deep breath. The Pull was becoming so strong that it was like a burning iron fist gripping his heart, tugging insessantly; demanding his full attention. His hearing seemed to have increased tenfold, as the sound of heavy footsteps fell against his ears: two sets, two distant voices. Uther and Arthur. The King and the Prince.

"Come _on_ Morgana! It's a long drive back to Cornwall and I don't want it to be any longer just because of you," Arthur's voice broke across the still landscape, and Merlin's heart plumetted. It was just as Merlin remebered it, loud and arrogant and selfish... and how he missed hearing it cry out his name, demanding his full attention, issuing orders; he missed how it could soften with concern, or swell with a power that rallied all who heard it. Gasping softly he whipped around to face the direction of the call, flinching when Morgana answered it.

 _Wrong, so wrong..._

"I'm here! I just went for a walk, _gosh.._." Morgana sped up despite her surly attitude, putting her headphones back on as she looked at Merlin. "Hey, come with us. Uther is a rich man, and he'll probably reward you. I'm Morgana Pendragon by the way..." as she spoke she looked down to change the song, and in that time Merlin made up his mind: he would go to Cornwall, and find Arthur there. Now was not the time to see Arthur again. It was too soon, and now that he was faced with the prospect of seeing Arthur after all this time, he couldn't do it. He just couldn't. "What's your name?" Morgana asked, as she turned around to speak to Merlin-

But he was gone.

* * *

 _ **{Well wasn't that a long chapter? heh... sorry if this is a bit slow, but the pace will pick up soon. I feel like Merlin and Morgana are out of character but I've never written Merlin fanfiction like this before, so there we are. If you're still here give me a shout and a wave below!**_

 _ **For Camelot?}**_


	5. Chapter III

_"You lied to me!"_

 _Two figures locked together in a gruesome dance, their shadows looming behind them on the wall. A fire was burning, and the garish light brought their bone-white faces into stark contrast with the shadows around them._

 _"I had no choice!" came the answering shout, desperately rising as the blonde man cracked a fist across his high cheekbones. The other man was dark-haired, and he could have been handsome, but for the blood running from his broken nose in hot streams and his swollen lip._

 _"No choice? NO CHOICE!?" Arthur-because, yes... that was Arthur- cried, and smashed the other man up against the wall, punching his jaw again and then again. He was sagging in Arthur's grip now, clinging desperately to consciousness by a slender thread; still, Arthur showed no sign of relenting with his violent onslaught._

 _"Stop... stop..." the voice was wavering and weakening, thick with blood and pain; Arthur's hands closed around the young man's throat, tightening, knuckles whitening as his whole body was shaking. It wasn't the fire that was making Arthur appear to burn, but an insane light seeming to spill from his eyes and illuminate him from within. "Stop!" and then the young man's drooping eyes snapped open, his dark orbs suddenly aflame with swirling gold and amber. Arthur's entire face widened in surprise, and then he was flying backwards through the air. He hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, and then lay still._

* * *

 **M** organa woke with a start, bolted upright in her bed with her mouth stretched wide to release a scream that had become lodged in her throat halfway up. Her dark hair was plastered to her clammy forehead, chest rising and falling rapidly with every breath that was tearing through her lungs. Shaking, she reached for the light and switched it in, the image of Arthur's broken body on the ground still floating before her eyes- but that wasn't the last thing she had seen. The other man, whose face was familiar but eluded her memories for the time being, had been staring down at Arthur with such a look of undisguised guilt and sadness in his eyes as Morgana had never seen before in her life. He hadn't meant to kill Arthur. In the moments before Morgana had had the strength to tear herself out of sleep, she had watched as grief overwhelmed him, and he had collapsed to his knees.

Getting up and going to her ensuite bathroom, she gripped the edges of the sink-bowl as she looked into the mirror that hung above it. Her eyes were rimmed red from tears that were still unshed, and below that, hung with dark circles from sleepless night after sleepless night. She hadn't thought that she had slept at all, and then all of a sudden she had been immersed in a harrowing nightmare that shook her far more than she dared to say. It seemed that no matter what she did to escape the products of her troubled mind-whether it was caffeine or sleeping tablets- the monsters would always come for her in the end. Yawning, she brushed her teeth until the bitter taste of bile in the back of her throat was washed away, and then made her fumbling way back across the bedroom and went downstairs.

Uther was away, and Arthur was... where was he? Morgana didn't think he had told her, and at the time she hadn't really cared where he was going with his holdall bag packed and his walking boots slung around his neck. Probably just another one of his silly adventures with his friends. Only, now she wished that she had made sure he had at least taken his phone with him. Knowing Arthur, it would still be sitting in its charging cradle in his bedroom. Entering the kitchen, she shivered and wished that she had brought her dressing-gown downstairs with her when she had stopped to put on her slippers: the kitchen was cold and empty, pale moonlight spilling in through the French sliding doors and washing the large kitchen-come-dining room in silvery white. Standing in the doorway, she looked at the room and thought about how a kitchen was supposed to be warm and inviting.

As she padded across the room and took a glass from one of the cabinets, the realisation that she knew the other man from her dream hit her. With a small gasp, she only just caught herself to prevent the glass falling from her hands, putting it down hastily.

It had been almost five months since she had gotten herself lost in the Lakeland countryside, and had asked help from the Disappearing Man- as she had privately dubbed him in her own mind. She hadn't thought much about him since then, until now, when he had made an appearance in one of her nightmares as the man who killed her brother. Oh of course, the killing had been accidental, as it had been strange, but she couldn't help wondering what the dream had been telling her. Ever since her nightmares had started- five months ago, almost perfectly coinciding with her meeting with the stranger- she had spent a lot of time online, browsing through website after website that would supposedly offer answers. None of them had served to do much more than scare her horribly, (talking about inner murderous desires, the emergence of all sorts of mental disorders and a vast array of other things that had made her heart pound and her hands shake), and she was becoming more confused than ever. Why her? She, who was stuck with such a man as Uther Pendragon for a legal guardian, and an arrogant prat like Arthur for a brother-figure, felt cursed tenfold by her dreams. Not all of them could be classed as dreams though, could they?

After all, she couldn't deny that that dreary morning in the Lakelands hadn't been the first time she had seen her Disappearing man. There was the matter of that one dream she had had weeks before the meeting, when he had appeared to her on a mystical Lake, and called her Morgan Le Fae, harbinger of Arthur's demise.

* * *

 **W** hen Morgana woke up the next morning, she was lying on the sofa with a crick in her neck and the TV playing some god awful morning breakfast show. There was the smell of cooking in the air; fried food and strong coffee, and the mouth-watering scent of fresh cinnamon bread. Morgana didn't have to be fully awake to know who was cooking in the kitchen, as she got up and turned off the TV with a smile on her face. Only one person made cinnamon bread that would have any reason to be in her house.

"Gwen?" she called softly, moving across the hall to the kitchen. The room was warm and alive, as opposed to the moon washed waste she had stood in last night. On the table, a fresh loaf was sitting in greaseproof paper, with two mugs of coffee and two plates. Guinevere herself was at the cooker, humming softly as she stirred up mushrooms and flipped eggs. "Oh, Gwen, you're far too kind," a gentle smile curled Morgana's lips.

"Not at all. You haven't been sleeping again, and I thought you might be getting lonely- this is the least I could do," Gwen turned and smiled right back. Her hair was tied in a French knot, the ringlets that were still free falling in a cascade down to her lower back, and she was wearing a loose light cream blouse with black jeggings. Her feet were bare, and Morgana realised that she must have turned on the under floor heating. Outside, the garden looked cold and grey, but that could be overlooked so easily when it was the two of them inside a house that only became a home in Uther's absence. The chill that had hung over Morgana since last night dissipated.

"Really, you shouldn't have," Morgana protested again, but even as she spoke she was sitting down at the table and starting to cut the loaf into slices, her stomach growling as the delicious scent became stronger. As she started spreading butter- real butter, home-made, not the expensive but nasty spreads that Uther ordered to be brought- over the bread, Gwen came over and served up the eggs and bacon with mushrooms. "It's starting to feel like you're my maid as well as my only friend,"

"Well then, my lady, is there anything else you require?" Gwen sat down opposite Morgana, taking a coffee mug into her hands and cradling it almost protectively. Her brown eyes were all the more soft for her concern, even though she was smiling and spoke teasingly. "But really Morgana," now her tone became serious, and she settled back in her chair, watching as Morgana gladly tucked into the food she had prepared. "I know you too well- you haven't been eating properly either, have you? And something's still upsetting you,"

Morgana finished her mouthful, chewing deliberately slowly as she tried to remain collected and cool. Putting down her knife and fork with a slight tremor in her hands, she picked up her coffee mug and stared down into it.

"Remember what happened when I went camping, and the dream I had before I met him?" she started a little shakily, reluctant to speak out her fears even to Gwen: the psychology student was her closest friend, but she was still nervous. "I... had another nightmare last night, and I'm afraid that that might come true as well- I'm not saying I think I can see the future, but it wouldn't be the first time I've seen something and... well, it's happened," She ran a hand through her hair, avoiding Gwen's encouraging eyes. "I saw myself carrying that man, but in my dream he was dead... when I met him in real life, he was only sick. He just looked so familiar,"

"And what was the nightmare last night about?" Gwen gently steered Morgana back on track, and for that Morgana was thankful.

"That man again, and Arthur. It was a fight to the death, and I had never seen Arthur look so angry... or anyone look so upset, and he didn't mean to kill-" Morgana's voice broke at last, and she gasped sharply to hold in her tears. Now this wouldn't do, would it? She was rambling, her words losing any sense and so she stopped, and stood up, walking over to the window with her coffee mug in hand.

And then she stopped.

And the coffee mug fell from her slacked fingers.

No... No... No matter what happened, Morgana couldn't start seeing things as well. As long as her nightmares stayed inside her head she could handle them, but as soon as they became real...

It was him, her Disappearing man: just for a moment she had seen him as clear as day, caught like a startled deer amongst the bushes in the garden. His hair had grown out, and his face was narrower, his clothes hanging off his frail body, but it was him alright. Her breathing was almost spiralling out of control, but in the moment where their eyes locked- his electric blue and terrified; hers pale hazel and surprised- a stillness fell between them. It was only a moment but somehow, that was all it took for a steely calm to settle over Morgana. Before she knew it, the man was gone once again, leaving nothing but a faint rustle in the bushes.

* * *

 **D** ays passed away, and Arthur returned home. This time however, Morgana did not let herself forget about the stranger; he joined the many faces and creatures in her private sketchbooks, his likeness captured alongside dragons and griffins, knights and terrifying creatures from other worlds- but also people. People she knew, and yet somehow didn't. There was Launcelot, wielding a sword in a field of battle, and Gwen and Arthur on two thrones in a grand hall, crowns upon their heads. One A3 page was filled with Uther: Uther in the regale of a king, Uther writhing on the ground in pain, Uther in a pool of blood in Arthur's arms... and more. So much more. Products of nightmares as they were, these things felt like they meant more than normal dreams did. She had been drawing her dreams since she was a small child, but never had she produced more than she had in these past five months. From graphite lines and charcoal shades, another life was emerging; another Morgana from another time: and it scared her. Oh, it scared her... and there was one thing she was certain of: her Disappearing Man had the answers.

* * *

 **M** erlin was frustrated.

On the outside he looked calm, sitting on a bench with his knees tucked securely up to his chest, hugging himself to keep out the morning chill that still clung to the nooks and crannies around the Cornish shore. His chin was resting on his knees, eyes half-closed like a man about to drift off into contented sleep. However, fury was burning in his chest.

He had allowed himself to be caught by Morgana, but what he had seen in the minutes before the witch had locked eyes on him had made his blood boil. Her and Guenever, acting like good friends together in the warmth of that kitchen, when Merlin _knew_ what Morgana's true nature was... What she could, and would, do. As for Arthur- that burning force that had drawn him to this small Cornish sea-side town- Merlin hadn't had a chance to even begin to get close to him. Every time he had tried, either Uther or Morgana had been near, or Merlin's courage had failed him and the words had stuck painfully in his throat. What could he possibly say if Arthur didn't recognise him?

 _Hey Arthur, you might not remember me, but I was your servant in another life like... A very long time ago. Hi_

It would be futile, and would most likely see Merlin in a police holding cell, or even in a nice white room being questioned by the so-called ' _men in white coats_ '.

The quiet in which he had shadowed Arthur was trying his ability to cope, but perhaps if he kept waiting then his time would come. Sighing, he lifted his head and turned his attention to the other end of the park field. There, wearing football colours and carrying a ball under one arm, was Arthur, and behind him came Launcelot and Gawain. Merlin smiled widely, amazed to see the other two as well. Lancelot, an old friend and an ally he thought he had lost forever, and Gawain, a tearaway with a strong love of ale and an even stronger love for his friends. In that moment, Merlin could have laughed out loud, and as it was, he had to bite his bottom lip quite hard as he watched them start to mess around. It was not at all hard to tell that Arthur was the ringleader of the three, loud and confident, but not necessarily the most skilled; that was Gawain, closely followed by Launcelot.

"It's a shame you don't play for the team anymore," Launcelot's voice drifted downwind to where Merlin was now sitting, relaxed as he leaned forward and dropped his legs down so they were crossed underneath the bench, elbows resting loosely on his knees.

"My studies got in the way- oooh!" Gawain replied, grinning as he stole the ball from under Launcelot's feet and sent the younger man to the ground, flat on his back.

"What studies? Studying the bottom of a beer can?" Arthur laughed, and although Merlin couldn't quite see he could have sworn that he saw a flush rise on Gawain's cheeks.

"Oh, I know- collecting data on how many men you can pick up from a range of gay bars in one night," Lancelot put in, shoving Gawain's shoulder playfully. Gawain snorted, turning away for just a moment as if he was upset, before suddenly taking the ball from Arthur and tearing off down the field with the other two hot on his heels, dribbling all the way as if he was simply going at a casual walk. Their yells and mock-insults rose high into the air, and Merlin saw those three in another time, in a field not unlike this one where they had trained with sharp swords and sharper humour. Some things really did never change, Merlin thought to himself, settling back in contentment. After a short time, his watching eyes grew heavy and his head began to droop to one side; before he knew it, the reality of the morning with the three young men had blurred into pleasant dreams of the past. Peacefully, he dozed, not knowing that later as the trio were leaving, Arthur felt a very faint whisper on the wind and a chill pass down his spine- and when he paused in his footsteps to look behind him, he momentarily thought he was looking at an old friend, before the chill faded and he was looking at a filthy young homeless man once more.

* * *

 _ **{Whoo another chapter! Also, the spellings for some of the names might be a little odd but I spell their names as I find them in Bullfinch's Mythology, so Lancelot is Launcelot, Perceval/Perceivale etc. Sorry for any confusion! Give us a shout and a wave below if you're still here, and hopefully a favourite as well. See you next time ^-^}**_


	6. Chapter IV

_**"-The most famous man of all those times**_

 _ **Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts**_

 _ **Had built the King his havens, ships and halls**_

 _ **Was also Bard and knew the starry heavens;**_

 _ **The people called him Wizard."- Tennyson**_

 **T** he day was bright and warm, although a cool wind blew in from the sea, laden with the smell of bitter brine and fresh earth. Arthur sat on part of the low wall that ran around the edge of his College car park, in full sunlight, basking in the warmth of the day; his iPad with his class notes was abandoned on the wall beside him. He had sat down with every intention to use the twenty minutes until Gawain came out of his lecture wisely, but had ended up simply enjoying the first warm sun of late spring. As he sat there, a movement down one end of the car park caught his eye, and he squinted at the only area where the sunlight didn't seem to be able to even gently brush. Something about the gathering of the shadows made him shiver, and creeping foreboding brushed its fingers down his spine. It was unnatural. He fixed his gaze on the shady area.

However, it wasn't until he was starting to think about moving inside the building that he saw another movement, and then he saw the homeless young man he had started to notice hanging around the town more often. Shaking his head and scoffing at himself quietly, he sat back down and picked up his iPad, pushing back the odd paranoia that he was being followed by this man. Since seeing him sleeping on a bench at the park football ground, he had seen the man most places where he himself had gone; some of those places felt like normal haunts for a young homeless man, like parks and the town centre, but why on earth would he be hanging around a college of all places? The behaviour that he was showing was sneaky and shadowy, and try as he might, Arthur couldn't deny that he was becoming genuinely concerned about his own safety. Despite all this, however, the nagging feeling that he recognised the man was the only thing that stopped him from going to the police about it, or speaking to his father. He felt that if he did any of those things, he would somehow be betraying an old friend- an utterly ridiculous notion, of course.

Swallowing thickly, he glanced over the top of his iPad and saw that the man was gone, and the sun was shining brightly where only moments before it had looked dark as night. Shivering again, Arthur got up and walked slowly over to where he had seen the raven-haired young man, peering around as if he expected to be attacked any moment. The tangle of low bushes to his right rustled, and he took a deliberate step towards them, certain that he could see a flash of unnatural blue through the green and berry-red...

"Arthur! What are you doing!?" Gawain's voice rang out, and the moment was broken. Arthur turned around, shrugging.

"Looking for you. Where the hell have you been?" he asked, picking up his bag and stuffing his iPad back in it, quickly slinging it over his shoulder and stretching out casually. "I was just about to give up waiting, and walk home alone,"

"Oh no- you wouldn't really abandon me, would you?" Gawain gasped dramatically, and gave Arthur a look of such comic mock-hurt that he had to smile and roll his eyes. The two of them started to walk out of the car park, turning down the little footpath that would cut through the orchards and eventually around the back of the old farmhouse that stood abandoned on the outskirts of the large village. As they stepped under the leafy cover of the trees, Gawain started up some kind of mindless chatter that was interesting at first, but as the subject veered away from his lecture and onto more random topics, it became harder and harder for Arthur to stay focused. He had learned a long time ago with Gawain that as long as you nodded and muttered 'hm... oh yes' every now and then, he would keep talking obliviously, satisfied with his audience. This gave Arthur the space to think about what was really on his mind: the fact that he still felt watched.

Glancing quickly to one side and then the other, he saw a quick scuffle of movement, and then there was the homeless man again, walking on the footpath on the other side of the orchards! Arthur gulped.

"Gawain," he started, slowing down.

"Hm? Oh, keep up, or am I too fast for you? I mean honestly, that Percieval is unbelievable! So as I was saying, he really doesn't care about me..." he kept on chattering, and irritation started throbbing under Arthur's skull.

"Ga- _wain_!" He hissed, louder, and this time something about the way he said it made his older friend stop walking and turn around. There was a look of alarm on his face.

"Yeah?"

"I think we're being followed," Arthur crouched down, getting behind the trunk of wide tree and hiding in the long grass at its roots, motioning for Gawain to do the same. Through some deep instinct of other, Gawain followed his example and got down beside him. "Look. Over there," and so pointing across the large apple orchard between them, Arthur showed Gawain the young man who had stopped and was also standing behind one of the apple trees. However, the apple trees were low, their branches quite bare and gnarled, and it wasn't that hard to see him.

"What on earth..?"

"I don't know. I've seen him hanging around quite a bit," he started, keeping his voice very low. They were moving down, creeping along under cover until the man was out of sight. He clearly hadn't realised that they were gone, as he was still hiding and watching the place where they had disappeared off the path. "I thought he was just some homeless junkie- looks a mess- but... now I'm not so sure. Don't want to go to the police though, or my father, either way it would become a real pain in the backside,"

"Well mate, you're in this deep... it'd be stupid not to do something about it,"

"Yes, but like what?"

"We'll just have to confront him ourselves," Arthur looked at Gawain, deeply surprised and, saw that the other man was being completely serious. He gave Arthur a determined look, and slowly a grin spread across Arthur's face.

"Sometimes you surprise me, Gawain. Alright then, we'll do that!" he nodded, feeling a huge weight lifted off his shoulders.

"If he's dangerous, then all of us together should be enough to send him packing. If he's just some messed-up kid, then we'll just give him a warning and that'll scare him off," Gawain reiterated, looking smug and very proud of himself. Arthur shakily sighed in relief.

* * *

Merlin yawned, rubbing his tired eyes as he got up from his sleeping bag and began to roll it up. It was very late evening, but after losing sight of Arthur and Gawain, he had decided to find this quiet side alley in the main centre of village and catch up on some of the sleep that he had been losing lately. Waking before it got fully dark was an unfortunate thing, but once he was awake he knew that he would never make it back to sleep again, and so he put his boots back on and after rolling up his sleeping bag to the smallest it would go and attaching it to his rucksack again, straightened up to go.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat loudly.

He jumped and spun around, and uttered a strange sound somewhere between a quiet groan of despair and a yelp of shock. Like ghosts in the twilight, those that now surrounded him had emerged silently; they were faces that he knew so well, and yet somehow didn't: brave Sir Gawain, loyal Sir Launcelot, balanced sir Leon, truthful Sir Elian, Sir Percieval the Strong... and Arthur, King of the Round Table. Merlin looked from face to face, shrinking back against the wall and letting his rucksack strap slip from his fingers.

"Y-Yes?"

"Why have you been following me?" Arthur stepped to the front of the group. He cut an imposing figure in the half-light, tall and broad, with his expensive top-brand clothing worn in a careless, and still somehow fashionable, mess. His arms were folded across his chest, but despite the carelessness of his stance, Merlin was in no doubt that Arthur was a coiled as a serpent, ready to strike out at the slightest movement. The way that he cut straight to the chase left Merlin without the slightest clue of what to say, panic chilling him to core. His gaze skittered from face to face again, each one looking at him coolly with not so much as a hint of compassion in their eyes- other than Launcelot. Merlin's eyes came to rest on Launcelot, as he silently begged the powers that be to help him out of this situation. The last thing he wanted to do was use magic and hurt them.

Launcelot stepped forward in a rush, and suddenly one of arms was around Merlin's shoulders in a gesture of deep friendship. He grinned, giving Merlin a nudge.

"Merlin! It's been a long time, wow... sorry everyone, this is my old friend Merlin!" he said confidently, and Arthur stepped back, confused. Gawain's cool composure cracked, as he snorted with laughter and stared at the two. Merlin laughed shakily, relaxing even as he tried to move slightly away from the very close contact with Launcelot. "Yeah, he's just shy- and probably still just as messed up, aren't you Merlin?"

Merlin could only nod mutely. Elian raised his eyebrows and everyone turned to look at Arthur, who had gone almost red in the face, and was looking highly un-amused by the situation. Now Leon was laughing along with Percieval and Gawain, as the three of them turned and started to leave the alley, nudging Arthur playfully as they passed. Elian clapped the prince on the shoulder.

"No, no! Hang on a minute, you mean he's been following me because he's... shy?" Arthur looked at Launcelot almost helplessly. From where he stood, Merlin could see how hard Launcelot had to try in order to keep his expression in check; there was confusion in his eyes. Launcelot shrugged, tapping one side of his head and jerking a thumb in Merlin's direction, and at last the suspicion on Arthur's face melted into a grin. "There's seriously something wrong with this friend of yours, if that's all he is. Well, I'll leave you two to catch up..." he raised his eyebrows, before following where everyone else had gone, to the alley mouth where Merlin could see them all walking off quite happily. The situation was anti-climatic, but for once that was incredibly welcome.

As soon as Arthur was gone, Launcelot and Merlin practically leapt away from each other like two hot embers from a spitting fire. Merlin couldn't look up to meet Launcelot's gaze, instead turning his attention to fixing the ties and straps on his rucksack that had been burst by the drop from his hands. He cursed when he saw that the metallic water-bottle he used had cracked on impact, and his sleeping-bag was soaked.

"I'm... sorry about that," Launcelot spoke in a low voice, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck. He frowned, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache, blinking down at the ground. "And I'm not sure why I called you Merlin, it was just the first name that popped into my head," he mused, eventually looking up again and running his eyes over Merlin; he made little effort to hide the pity in his gaze- (or was that sympathy? Merlin found it hard to tell the difference these days) - as he surveyed the homeless man.

"Oh, I am called Merlin. Maybe I just look like a Merlin, or... something,"

"Or something," the other man snorted softly, folding his arms. "So, why were you following Arthur?"

Merlin's stomach dropped through the floor, and his heart fluttered dangerously in his chest. Oh, how _stupid_ he had been to believe that Launcelot wouldn't have questions of his own. For a few brilliant moments, right from when his name had come from Launcelot's mouth, he had dared to hope that Launcelot remembered. Clearly he didn't.

"I wasn't," Merlin shrugged at last, chuckling nervously. "Well, not following, exactly..." he felt a cold trickle of nervous sweat run down the back of his neck, and he thanked whatever powers that be for his much improved ability to lie. "Honestly, he just reminded me of an old friend, and I haven't had much else to do," he looked down like he was ashamed, twisting his hands together and sniffing tearfully. The tears weren't all that false, and perhaps that was what finally melted the cool suspicion in Launcelot's wary eyes.

"In that case, would you like to come back for a hot shower and something to eat?" he offered, and Merlin had to cover his mouth in the pretence of rubbing his nose to hide the smile that was threatening to turn into a laugh of relief- how glad he was to find out that Launcelot had lost none of his honest kindness! "It's just me at home, so there'll be nobody else about..."

"If it isn't too much trouble, yes please," Merlin nodded happily, and let his smile show.

"Come on then, and I'll take that. You don't look too good," before Merlin could say anything in protest, Launcelot had shouldered his rucksack and was walking off with steady strides, leaving Merlin in the position of following after him helplessly.

* * *

 _ **{Old friend, eh Merlin?**_

 _ **Anyway, thanks for reading! If you find my chapters too long, let me know, but I always aim for a minimum of 1000 words if I can and then they just... won't stop XD I hope to get another chapter up by tomorrow, but if not then you'll only have to wait a week, as a minimum because I aim to update every weekend. See you next time!**_

 _ **PS- for the people of , all chapters up until this one (chapter four) have already been published on Wattpad. From here I hope to get more up over Christmas break and updating will now be parallel with Wattpad}**_


	7. Chapter V

_**Well guess who has had this chapter sitting on ColourNote on their phone since January? Whoops! Here it is, hastily edited and hopefully readable. It's one of those chapters that get written when I can't sleep**_

* * *

Merlin hadn't really thought about how much he needed a shower, until he looked down and saw all the grime swirling around the water at his feet and away down the drain; nor had he thought about how much a simple shower could re-boost his sinking spirits, until he stepped out and stood on the shower mat, and caught his grin in the mirror. Towelling off, he shrugged on the underwear and dressing-gown that Launcelot had handed him after offering to wash his clothes, leaving the towel around his shoulders as he wandered downstairs. The house was quite small, and felt barely lived in. The few photographs that hung in the hallway were old pictures from, Merlin assumed, his parent's honeymoon, and none of them showed Launcelot. In the kitchen, the stove was covered in a very fine layer of dust, but the microwave looked well-used and a quick check confirmed Merlin's suspicions when he found the bin full of microwaveable dinner packets. In the lounge at the back of the house he could look through the window to see the garden, which was a sorry patch of lawn no longer looked after. Everywhere was a mess, but the mess looked like someone had started to clear up and then been distracted, or found something better to do. In short, the whole house felt abandoned despite the obvious evidence of a lonely teenage college student living in it.

"Sorry, I know it's a tip..." Launcelot's voice was speaking, drifting through to the lounge from the kitchen. He was clattering around, making more noise than Merlin felt was needed; it didn't take a genius to realise that Launcelot was trying to fill the emptiness in the house. Merlin had wandered to a bookshelf in the corner full of romantic thrillers and a few mindless crime comedies, and was browsing through to see if anything would get his attention. He let his fingers trail over the slightly dusty, still new-looking spines.

"It's alright," he responded brightly as he went and rejoined Launcelot in the kitchen, hovering by the doorway and watching as Launcelot reheated something in a tupperwear bowl. "Just you?Where're your parents?"

"Have a seat," Launcelot said encouragingly, turning and waving one hand vaguely in the direction of the kitchen table. He had frozen for just a moment at the mention of his parents, but the mistake had only lasted the amount of time it took for Launcelot to breathe in sharply, and then his composure was regained and he was back to playing the role of cheerful host. "Mum and dad are away for business with the Pendragon Company, they'll be gone for weeks,"

"And they just... left you?" Merlin frowned as he sat down, mentally trawling through the dust of centuries until he dragged up a memory of Launcelot, framed in the light from a window with a fond smile on his face as he spoke of his parents with awe and respect, but most of all- with love; now there was a shadow in his eyes and a curdled bitterness tainting his words. It did not sit right with Merlin, who had envisioned great people: a mother of strength and courage not unlike his own, and a father in the spitting image of Launcelot himself. Instead, he was seeing faceless, cruel shadows who neglected their son. Well, who could tell what this new century would bring?

"Yes. It's no big deal,"

"Really?"

"Really. Now here," Launcelot placed the bowl down in front of Merlin, revealing some sort of soup and brown bread. "I think Gwen's family really pity me or something because they keep making me food," he chuckled lowly, and once again Merlin was struck by the familiarity with which the former knight was addressing him; it also warmed him through to his heart to know that Gwen had been looking out for Launcelot. He grinned to express a gratitude and a joy beyond any words he knew, and immediately began to eat. Launcelot sat down opposite him, mirth sparkling in his eyes as he watched Merlin inhale the soup and bread too fast to even appreciate it, slender fingers curled around the warmth of the bowl tightly, the hunch in his shoulders that of a predator who has found prey in the dead of winter. Once Merlin was finished and leaning back happily in his chair, Launcelot felt the urge to speak again- "And what about you?"

"Me?Oh, I... I'm no matter," Merlin shook his head. "Really, not interesting at all,"

"I'm interested,"

"Nah, you wouldn't be,"

"I'm interested in why you're on the streets,"

"It's a long story,"

"We have all evening,"

"I..." Merlin puffed out his cheeks in defeat, groaning softly. "Fine. I'm on the streets because... I lost someone very close to me, and I... I-I... well, I made some bad choices, and I had nobody else to turn to once all was said and done," it took every ounce of conviction that Merlin possessed not to show the inferno of emotions he felt in his face, and it pained him physically to be silently including Launcelot in the unspoken list of people he had lost. Launcelot, who was watching him attentively.

"I'm sorry,"

"Don't be... Anyway, thank you for the meal, and for the shower. I should be going," he got up, the peace that had slowly been easing his mind shattered, and a feeling of damp coldness creeping up his spine. "It was all my fault," he whispered as he headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Launcelot called after him. If he had heard Merlin's cracked whisper he showed no sign of it, which only strengthened Merlin's gratitude.

"Well, I can't stay. You'll see me around town," he smiled.

"Nonsense! Come on, I have a settee, and more room than I care to think about- not to mention, plenty of solitude and more food than I can eat alone,"

"Heh... you're not being serious?"

"Very serious,"

"You're offering me a place to stay?"

"Yes!" Launcelot got to his feet and held out a hand for him to shake. "Welcome to my humble home,"

Merlin could only stare at the offered hand for a moment, amazed, and then he took it firmly. He stared into Launcelot's kind, unlined, younger than he remembered face, and sensed that Launcelot was doing this on more than a friendship of just a few hours, but on a sensation of mutual companionship and brotherhood that was older than millennia

* * *

Late morning had rolled around far sooner than Launcelot had expected, and he was suprised when the burnt umber light washed over his desk and study notes; rousing him from the stupor he had been descending into. Yawning, he closed his book- a careworn copy of old English folktales-and put aside his pen. He listened to the deep quiet of the house, reflecting on the fact that his new housemate was still asleep- and so he should be allowed to remain, especially after sleeping rough for however many nights. Launcelot could understand that those nights would have been awful, and he was sorry for whatever dreadful things Merlin had been through. The company was more welcome than he wished to admit.

Slowly, avoiding the steps that creaked and the treads that groaned, Launcelot made his way down to the kitchen and boiled the kettle. He grinned in satisfaction when he checked his watch, starting to whistle happily to himself before stopping and remembering the sleeping Merlin. In just under an hour he would be able to put aside all of his papers and notes, and head out to meet up with all his friends in the abandoned warehouse, to enjoy the daylight while it lasted.

"You look happy," Merlin wandered in, running his hands through his hair sleepily.

"You look much better than you did last night," Launcelot shot back.

"I have your oddly comfortable sofa to thank for that," Merlin nodded, flashing a grin.

"I'm just making coffee. Anyway, I'll be going out in a while so... feel free to make yourself comfort- wait, no, actually," Launcelot broke off, staring into the middle distance with the kettle tipped dangerously close to the pouring position for a moment as a new idea crossed his mind. Uneasy, Merlin watched Launcelot as he put the kettle safely down and then turned back to face him. His arms were folded across his chest as he leaned casually against the counter.

"So, you got off on the wrong foot with Arthur and everyone else... I think you should come with me,"

"Come with you? Wait- you're meeting up with them?"

"Yes. We have a clubhouse, of sorts- an abandoned warehouse really- and we meet there at weekends. I think you ought to come, you seem like a nice guy Merlin, and so's Arthur once you get to know him,"

"I know," Merlin muttered to himself. He had turned his face from Launcelot's, afraid of betraying the annoyance and humour he was feeling at hearing Arthur spoken about like he was a stranger to him. Out of everything Merlin had battled with- loneliness being the worst- he wasn't sure anything would be as difficult to tackle as pretending to be a stranger to his best friend. Clearing his throat, he bites his bottom lip and nods.

"Sure. Okay, thank you for the offer, I—"

"You're not allowed to say 'I'll think about it',"

"Fiiiine," he groaned in exasperation. "Fine, I'll come," Merlin swallowed, and Launcelot smiled.


End file.
